#19: The Park in Each Season
An ode to the happiness I feel in Prospect Park
Above: A recent view in Prospect Park (photos my own)
I love the park at dawn in the summertime. If I time it correctly during a run, I can see the first edges of the sun over the trees on the other side of the glistening lake. Just then, when the water first comes into view, the sky and surface are showcasing the most vibrant colors of sunrise. The fiery mixtures are different each day, so that every experience is unrepeatable. But it is a goal of mine to relive each as often as possible.
On some mornings, I just miss the climactic moment when the lake briefly takes on such a serenely magical aura. The disappointment only drives me to get up earlier the next day, which itself might be spoiled by clouds. But I am always grateful to the benevolence of nature whenever I am blessed with the sunrise I crave. No matter how many times everything falls into place, I always want to see it just that way again.
I walk there sometimes on the hottest days. The sweat is worth it for the views of all the swans, ducks, and frogs. Dogs are in paradise as they scamper about near the edges of the water, sniffing everything in their path. I stand drinking iced coffee in the foliage, basking in the lush green which surrounds me on all sides. I step over to the side of the lake. There I watch two dozen turtles sunbathing on a crowded rock. I catch the eyes of the squirrels which hop about in the branches above. It’s quiet and humid in the morning. The only sounds come from the animals and birds. Other walkers are here too, standing in silence while staring out at the turtles.
Then the fall comes. The first real autumn run is always special. It’s when virtually all the leaves have changed into floating swirls of red, yellow, and brown, so that these colors come to dominate the park’s roads and paths. During the apex of autumn, I am running through tunnels of the most gorgeous crimson leaves. I can look to the right, to the left, or to the sky; they are everywhere around me. They’re falling from above as I run up the side of the lake. Thick groups of fall trees saturate the whole circumference of the chilly water, and children play cheerfully beneath them.
Returning home from the first autumn run has me wanting to go back for a walk. Then I can stand beneath the amber branches of one of the park’s largest trees. An ethereal light seeps through thousands of earthy, ember-like leaves which glow with the crisp energy of the fall sun. Each of them whispers in the breeze directly overhead.
However much I want to prolong this moment, I inevitably do find myself walking home. I look back from time to time, questioning whether I should return. The red brilliance of the tree is more distant each time I pause to turn back. Finally, I can see it no longer. How can I be such a fool, I wonder, to be abandoning that great tree so quickly? In terms of the tremendous size of its branches, the plasma-like blaze of its dark and radiant reds, and the sheer number of its leaves, there is simply no tree quite like it elsewhere in the park. And once all its leaves are gone, I will pass it by without taking any notice. I sorrowfully remind myself that this painful nothingness could descend any day now. I chastise myself for not having appreciated the tree deeply enough. I might have to wait a whole year to stand there again in a worshipful trance.
It is in the winter that my explorations finally penetrate the park’s interior. I love two-hour walks on the coldest, snowiest days the most. Then I can feel the brisk wind in my face from time to time. Then I can enjoy the real crunch of hard snow under my boot. And the park is always boiling with joyful play after a big snow in New York. In the evening, multitudes of children take to the hills with their sleds. Their happy laughter dominates the sounds in the air. Snowball fights break out repeatedly, their frantic skirmishes scattered across the vast white meadow.
As dusk settles, dozens of snowmen come to loom in the expansive greying landscape. Most are carefully crafted and elaborately decorated. Others, sadly neglected by their creators, seem to cry out for a passerby to stop and provide them with a nice face and arms. As an early winter darkness finally overtakes the park, this great spontaneous festival slowly dissipates. With their many sleds in hand, hoards of families crowd through the exit near Grand Army Plaza.
The next morning on Zoom, one of my many redundant managers informs us that he knows some of us are not truly working all day long. But after what I saw the evening before, how can I now neglect to wander in the snowy park by day? How can I choose the completion of his spreadsheets over walking happily through the icy air?
After the Zoom meeting, I venture outside and then deep into the park. I relish being alone in its frigid and chilly interior. It’s Tuesday at noon, 30 degrees Fahrenheit. I am lost on a wonderful path through what I can pretend is an isolated forest. Troubling indeed is the ever-haunting truth that my superfluous and meddling managers loom in the world beyond these trees. It is disturbing to think that they can call me at any time. But this inconvenience is easily forgotten in the end. I pre-empt them by putting my phone into airplane mode. Most of their assignments I have completed ahead of the deadlines. Fortunately, I long ago learned the art of waiting to tell them so.
Perhaps I am supposed to be “working from home” on their unnecessary tasks. But the whole park is covered in pristine layers of fresh and glittering snowfall, and I am being asked to sit inside on Google Docs? My goal today is to lose myself in the wonder of the first big snow. My managerial overlords will not stand in my way.
I walk aimlessly for hours through the enticing paths of the wooded interior, forcing myself not to orient myself with the map on my phone. In the past, I’ve stuck primarily to the circumference or the meadows, only briefly venturing down the trails which weave through tall thickets and shrubbery. But today I simply follow them with my instincts. All the while, I listen to soft music by my favorite artist on my headphones. The songs are like lullabies which carry me off into a dreamy devotion for the frosted plants and frozen-over water around me. It’s cloudy, but some of the murkiest and most soothing sunlight manages to linger mesmerizingly in the grey spaces of sky between the leafless tree branches. I am determined not to take my phone out of Airplane Mode for any reason. No manager will disrupt the pleasant day dreams and meandering thoughts which flow so satisfyingly through my serene and freezing-cold tranquility.
My boots find traction at a point where the snowy path blends into an iced-over offshoot of the lake. This is a much more secluded and forested portion of the same lake where I sought the blessings of the summer sunrise. I stand there for a while near the base of a large stone bridge. A sheet of glacier-like river stretches out beneath its elegant arch, and I take off my headphones to listen. Although I am in Brooklyn, I cannot even hear any cars or sirens or trains. I cannot see any buildings beyond the forest which surrounds me. There is only the wind and the animals and the birds. I gaze upon the stonework of the bridge and the icicles on branches around it.
Then, once again letting music carry me off into a dreamy unreality, I continue my journey through the park. I reach the banks of the bigger part of the lake. I am overawed by its ghostly grey beauty. Weak clouds filter and soften many rich and varied shades of deep-winter sunlight. The lake itself is a vast sheet of ice and snow. Long strips of glittering silver stretch across it. Between these are wavy narrow tracts of sparkling white. Where clouds break, portions of the white suddenly brighten with the sharp shine of unfiltered sun reflecting off the snow.
The steady movement of clouds overhead mirrors the ghostly ripples of white, silver, grey, and diamond which shift across the lake. Then all goes still. This spellbinding and otherworldly layering of a snow, ice, sparkles, and shadows settles into one fixed form, stretching out sublimely a full quarter-mile into the distance. I stop in my tracks, too frightened to walk away and risk never seeing the lake like this again. This becomes the sight for which I strive throughout the bitter winter. Whenever the portents seem right, I gravitate helplessly toward these demobilizing viewpoints.
Eventually, the tiring Brooklyn cold drags brutally across the weeks, rarely ameliorated by snow storms. When they come, I must appreciate them for the alluring portals into other worlds which they cast onto the surface of the water in the park. I must explore the interior each time. But by late March, even the winter’s most ardent defenders have weakened in our heated passions for the refreshing sting of a raw and biting chill. By early August, when it’s 90 degrees, I will once again be yearning to return to my customary worship of the cold sunlight and sparkling snow on the shores of the lake. Right now, however, it’s the first real day of spring.
The sun is hot and unobstructed in the sky. As it casts its rays down upon the vegetation, each leaf seems to emanate its own blazing light. This dazzling and benevolently shady canopy draws my eyes upward into its sensational sunshine. A luminous, never-ending green is all around me for the first time in months. The highest leaves seem like little lightbulbs, while those closer to the ground flutter in the pleasing shadows cast by branches higher up. A cooling breeze rushes through the hedges, and a reassuring whisper dances its way through the lush overhead verdure. I wonder how I have gone so long without the outdoor warmth now immersing me.
All across the grassy meadows, people sit relaxing alone or in groups. Tall trees are scattered liberally across the edges of the grass, and people sit happily beneath their alluring gardens. They recline peacefully against the trunks, reading books or writing stories or listening to their favorite music. Others have picnics on the blankets which dot the hefty expanse of grassland. They throw frisbees around and sunbathe. After a long winter, they love the scorching light which strikes their skin during a summery slumber. From among these happy people there sometimes comes the smoky smell of a charcoal grill. It invites me to contemplate the wonderful outdoor meals to come.
Exiting the park near Grand Army Plaza, bright pink cherry blossoms flank either side of the triumphal arch. These blessings are only here for a brief period, greeting me each time I enter and leave the park. Couples stand beneath them taking romantic selfies. Staring up at the bouquet-like branches in surprised wonder, children frantically demand that their parents stop with them to look.
Sometimes I am anxious about something just before I come to these ephemeral pink wonders. But then I approach the outer reaches of these springtime sky gardens, and I dwell only on trees and flowers. I walk beneath their canopies and saturate my eyes with their graceful softness. For a few special moments during the park’s treasure-filled year, I stand in reverence for the life inside the blossoms. Covering the ground and dominating the branches, they soak my soul with feelings of peaceful equanimity.
Thank you so much for reading! I started The Severed Branch to pursue a project of writing 50 essays in 2022.
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